Something Different
Danielle Brown
Once the bulk of the snowman wrapping paper have left with the recyclables and even the trimmings seem to have lost their luster from too much merriment and impalement from the scurry. After the icing has aged to a coat a crackling cookie with its compadres left caking the fibers of the rug. And the hung stockings pfft, once more depleted, used and discarded for the treats that they held. At this point the carols seem taunting, and so does that cookie. It was a good Christmas. It's time now to move on. Prickly, commando needles tell me so, as they bomb past rubbed clay ornaments to fort along the floor.
I like it here. The interlude. It's quiet and the family is well fed. I burrow into my space of the well-worn fibers of the brown, friendly sofa. I drag up to cheek the best, plush blanket built for four or wound twice for one. My body, beneath the plush, synthetic fibers relaxes until sleep, which has been so eluding lately, closes in. And I drift lightly into its warm embrace. Dreams come easily, but are not easy to discern. I come to barely and confirm a resignation with these words: "aw, you sunk my battleship."